


Conceived in Shadow, Born in Grief

by Darth_Videtur



Series: Breaking the Future to His Hand [16]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Padme doesn't know what she's in for, Palpatine doesn't either, Politician lovin', Sith rituals, kink prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Videtur/pseuds/Darth_Videtur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The start of this prompt: starwarskinkmeme. dreamwidth. org /586.html?thread=141130#cmt141130 (I'm not sure if I had to, but I put spaces so the link would show up.) </p><p>Palpatine and Padme meet to discuss Malastare, but a whole lot more ends up happening than might be expected. At least from Padme's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anakin has been off planet for five months now, fighting in the far reaches of the Outer Rim, chasing down the elusive General Grievous and getting absolutely nowhere.

Palpatine has seen to that personally. 

Or should we say, ‘Sidious,’ he thinks to himself with a rare, self-indulgent grin as he passes by Sate Pestage on his way into the office of the Supreme Chancellor, the afternoon light bright against the blood red décor. He steps into the private suites just off the main office to freshen his appearance after a long day in the Senate Chamber. 

Keeping the boy out there only increases the youthful frustration, the desperate desire to return. And Palpatine knows what he wants: the sweet embrace of his chaste little wife, the delectable Senator Amidala. He can feel the Chosen One’s festering pain in the Force; the Jedi are truly fools to think they can keep the Chosen One hidden from the Sith. Anakin is a blazing inferno in the Force, clear to see even across the galaxy. 

But lately, the visions have shown Sidious something that makes even him hesitate. A child, born sometime in the future, stronger even than the Chosen One and destined for great and terrible things. The Force is vague, mocking when he tries to pull apart the curtains of the future and peer into the origins of this mysterious child. But the gist is clear enough. Two things are obvious to the Sith Lord. 

Anakin’s marriage with Amidala is a fortuitous gift. 

There is yet no child growing in the Senator’s womb. 

Darth Sidious paces across the small bedroom and settles onto the mattress with a thoughtful sigh. Perhaps the timing has been wrong when Anakin returns, perhaps things aren’t working out between them. Something must be done, because the child in the future must be his to mold and shape from the beginning. His own plans for the galaxy are quickly coalescing into fruition. He estimates less than a standard year will pass before the worlds lie glittering in his palms like fat gems. 

The child will be the crowing jewel, a final victory over the weakness that is the light side of the Force. 

Sidious glances at the holographic calendar. Something must be done soon. Anakin will be returning from his mission in a matter of days. 

Time enough for what must be done. He lets himself sink into the Force and reaches for the next part of his plan. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Padme is embarrassed to admit it. But there it is. She’s horny. Five months, five kriffing months. She’s desperate for Anakin’s touch. Her own touch hasn’t helped lately, because her mind knows Anakin is far out of reach, and nothing can substitute for that magnificent…

She snaps back to the present, blushing, but no one else shares the hall to see it. No one knows when Anakin’s mission will end, if it will ever end. So she wiles away the hours in the Senate Hall and Executive Building, doing her best to end the war so he can come home and fall into her open arms. Normally she cares about the rest of the galaxy too, but not today. Today she just wants him. 

She’s so lonely, and there’s no end in sight. 

Her core twitches with frustration, and she quickens her pace down the long hall. Best to get this business over with, so she can retreat to her apartments and mourn Anakin’s absence in privacy.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The words are ugly, dark, terrifying, sprung from some dark chasm in history. Incredibly persuasive, they will work their charms on the victim with understated agility. Ritual and rhyme, old as time. Sidious feels his lips twisting with the brutal snarl of each syllable, tearing and gnawing at the fabric of the Force. 

She is not far away now, her body being subtly shaped and prepared, her mind still her own. When he peers into the unguarded, bustling little brain, he is surprised and pleased by the sheer amount of lust already present. How she misses her faithful husband. How he will enjoy this. 

Palpatine carefully tucks Sidious into the far corners of his mind and draws the shade of his gentle smile. He washes the stain of blood from his palm, where ritual sacrifice was demanded and now only a faint pink line of healing remains. He steps from the private quarters just off his main office, tugging and straightening his elegant dark grey robes. 

The timing is perfect. Padme Amidala strides through his office doors, a high flush to her delicate cheeks. “Supreme Chancellor,” she curtsies. “Thank you for being willing to see me on such short notice. I hoped we might discuss a matter of some importance to Naboo.” 

“Of course,” he inclines his head. “Won’t you sit down?” He surprises her by sitting in the chair beside her own, instead of the chair behind his imposing desk. “Seems a little formal for old friends, don’t you think?” he asks with a soft chuckle and reaches for the wine, and the tension slides from her body. 

But the lust grows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets slip out. Padme is feeling the effects of the wine, or something...

They speak at length of the trade agreements being offered by Malastare, and he loosens her tongue with a glass of Corellian brandy. He observes her as they talk. The ritual is doing wonders, her heart rate elevating, her eyes slightly dilating, and he can feel the thrum of her body beneath the long, ornate Senate gown. 

This is the beauty of it. Her body is wildly affected by his dark purpose, but her mind must suffer the effects as clear-minded as it has ever been. Eventually, she will go mad if she continues to resist, but he is a player of long games, and he knows – instinctively – this game will go to him. 

She is desperate for touch, and he obliges innocently enough, reaching across to pat her hand when she expresses worry about the Gran delegate. Her skin is warm and flushed with her arousal. When he lets go of her to take the wine bottle and refill their glasses, he feels the rush of loss. Then a flood of emotion is pouring over his senses. 

Shock: she registers what she has just thought.

Confusion: why has she just thought that? 

Shame: to be thinking of her highly regarded mentor in that fashion, when her husband is away. 

A pause, a beat in the Force… Palpatine licks his lips, almost nervous in his anticipation, as much as he can ever be anyway. Here it comes.

Curiosity: she wonders what it might be like. 

And he pounces, leaning forward with a twist of a smile and a glass of wine. The ritual will be completed now. “Are you all right, my dear? You seem troubled.” 

Padme waves her thin hands helplessly in the air. “No, please, Chancellor, I’ll be all right. I just got a bit dizzy, that’s all. A little lightheaded.” The red suffusing her cheeks becomes her, he decides. 

“Don’t let this war drag your health down, Padme,” he says, taking her left hand in his own like any concerned mentor would do, rubbing his thumb calmly over the back of her fingers. Her outward politician doesn’t waver. In the Force, her faint presence quivers. 

“I’m doing all right,” she repeats, numb to everything but the sensation of flesh against hers. 

“You are too young for this terrible old war, these dark times,” he murmurs and finally releases her hand, leaning back in his chair. “You should take a leave of absence, perhaps.”

“Oh no,” she laughs, almost gasping with relief when he lets her go. Relief mingles with regret half a heartbeat later, and he revels in her horror as she realizes what she wants and then firmly stuffs it away. “Things are fairly dull around here these days. I’m just catching up on some work with the refugee movement on Alderaan, with Bail Organa…” 

“It is rather dull, at that,” he nods and watches her eyes closely. “Especially without Anakin here.” 

She should be proud of the way her voice never wavers. “Anakin…Skywalker? I suppose so, Your Excellency.” To any other, the disguise is perfect. To any other, nothing would be suspect, but to the man who taught her politics, her unease is painfully obvious. 

“Please,” it is his turn to wave a hand, though he does it lethargically, lazily. “We are too old of friends to put up with that without an audience. Call me Palpatine, as you used to, or must I reciprocate and call you Your Majesty?”

His teasing throwback to her days as Queen rattles her and awakens a surge of desire that she never knew she had, desire for the power and recognition of olden days, golden days before the galaxy tore in two. Palpatine is impressed by the sudden longing in her voice. 

“Very well, Palpatine. Thank you, my friend.” 

“You know,” he ponders the glass in his hand, swirling the contents around and around, like the thoughts in her pretty head: repulsion and attraction, over and over. “I miss Anakin all the more as this war goes on. It seems like he is always being sent away for another mission.” 

“He is… a Jedi,” Padme tears her eyes away from his and fixes her gaze on the glass. Her glass rises of its own accord and tips the contents down her delicately arched throat. Palpatine swallows with her as he experiences a surprisingly strong tug against his own ruthless control. 

“Well, yes,” he admits after a long pause, when both of them can safely speak again. 

Then he drops into Nubian, the language more flowing, more intimate than Basic can ever hope to be. In this, he has something even Anakin does not. He is one of her own, and she has always cared for her own. A regrettable, exploitable weakness. He takes it without mercy. “But he’s something more to you and me, isn’t he?” 

She pauses, surprised at the shift in languages, and she draws down the empty mask of the Queen and says softly in the same tongue, “I’m not sure what you mean, Palpatine.” Stalling? How amusing. 

He approaches the Force and receives a final confirmation. “He is a Jedi, but he is my friend also, Padme. I don’t like seeing my friends misused. Anakin has been fighting for over five months on a wild bantha chase for the Jedi Council. I know for a fact he wants to be here on Coruscant.” 

There exists a brief moment of jealousy that he has spoken with her husband and she has not, but then she looks a question at him. 

He inhales deeply and finishes with a slight hum, “with you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The serpent in the garden offers a choice.

“What?” She is like a baby gualama, trembling with her sudden fear that she has been exposed before a predator, and now her heart will be ripped out and eaten. 

Today, she need not fear that end. Palpatine meets her gaze boldly and dares a smile. “I know, Padme, I know what you and Anakin share. You need not fear condemnation from me.” 

“How long have you known?” her voice is a mere whisper, as though she thinks she is dreaming. 

“Over a year now,” he waves it away as though it does not matter, and really, it doesn’t. “You miss him, don’t you?” 

She watches him and finally comes to a decision. No more use pretending. “More than anything,” she admits, looking down into her hands. 

Palpatine carefully doesn’t look at her for this next, tricky part. He turns his eyes to the long transparisteel window and the golden glow that is casting itself across the high structures of the Senate District. “You must be terribly lonely without him here. Five months is… a long time, is it not?”

Her lust spikes high before she slams it down and fastens her hard will over it. He looks at her and thinks it truly a shame that she can’t touch the Force. She would have been magnificent, an ice queen of shadows and myth. He raises both eyebrows when she doesn’t immediately reply. 

A tinge of pink blossoming along the pale cheeks. Perfect. “It has been too long,” she agrees, a slight quaver in her tone now, something she cannot hide from his heightened senses. The ritual has made her clearer to him in the Force, once an inconsequential shadow of the mortal realm and now the future vessel for one who will change the universe. 

His body stirs with faint approval. 

“I’ve always admired your dedication,” he drops his voice lower and allows a hint of patient longing to infuse the small distance between them, an innocent, melancholy what-if that stirs her blood and imagination. He offers a wistful smile. “”Although sometimes I believe you expect far too much of yourself.” 

Padme stiffens in her chair and then stands up to pace over to the window. Pondering the traffic for a moment, she swivels back to him. “What do you mean, Chancellor?” 

“Going every day for months on end, without a friendly touch, a comforting hand,” Palpatine watches the tears gather in the corners of her eyes. He has hit on it; she misses Anakin for more than his magnificent young body. No, she misses the companionship, the laughter between them. Emptiness lies over her life like a blanket. 

Such vulnerability is perfect. 

He stands from his own chair and glides in her direction, setting his wine glass down on the edge of the desk as he passes. When he reaches her, Padme’s eyes are downcast as though she is ashamed of her admission. Palpatine stretches out a thin hand to her chin and turns it up, gentle, encouraging. 

“We are old friends, Padme,” he murmurs. “There is no harm in taking comfort from our friends when life becomes difficult to manage on one’s own.” 

“I’m. I’m not really myself right now,” Padme whispers, but her body is instinctively leaning forward into his touch, her shoulders shaking with ill-disguised need. “You are too kind, Palpatine.” 

“Anything for a dear friend,” he replies. “Promise me you shall take care of yourself.” At her soft nod, he leans in for a traditional Naboo parting kiss, a chaste affair on the rosy cheek. 

She turns abruptly, her body moving of its own accord, and their lips meet in a startling clash of ice and fire. For a moment, Padme is motionless, but her full lips are suddenly pushing against his thin ones with a desperate urging. Her hands rise to his shoulders, and sharp nails dig for purchase on the dark robes. Palpatine ignores the new pressure, inwardly delighted. 

She is pursuing him. 

A soft tongue teases along his lips, and he opens to accommodate her curiosity. She tastes him boldly, her slender frame shivering under his hands where he grasps her around the curve of her waist. Palpatine holds himself back with effortless control; she must be the one to initiate the contact, for the ritual will be all the more powerful if she does. 

Finally, when she wants to breathe again, Padme pulls away. He observes the new darkness in her eyes, the desire expanded into complete obsession even as her mind struggles to come to terms with the fact that she wants another man. A man who is not her husband. 

“I… we shouldn’t have done that,” she says. “Anakin. I’m married, Palpatine.” 

“I was aware,” he smiles at her nervous laugh. The Force tells him: here is the ultimate chance. Amusingly, Padme does not know her husband half as well as she pretends. The wedding was conceived in lust, not friendship, and the two young people have never established a groundwork that makes for a long-lasting union. 

She struggles still with her feelings for Rush Clovis. Unlike Anakin, faithfully loyal to a fault to those he trusts, Padme has known love and lust before her marriage to the young Jedi Knight. She knows what it is like to give herself to another man. 

Once broken, the seal is impossible to replace. 

She has no way of knowing that Anakin will never break his vows, that he will never look at another woman, the poor idealistic, obsessive fool. Palpatine studies her face, projecting nothing but the concern of a mentor. He reaches out with the Force and plants the seed in her unguarded soul. If she can imagine breaking her vows, how much more could a virile young man far from the comforts of home? 

“Anakin would understand your pain, I think,” he purrs softly and watches the eyes narrow with thought. “He must be quite lonely, as well.” 

Her thrumming body is not giving her time to think clearly, and his gentle Force suggestion has made its mark. He peeks into her simple mind and sees an image of Anakin entwined in the arms of a faceless Twi’lek dancer, in some fancifully imagined club in the Outer Rim. He suppresses a smile at the sharp, unadulterated, irrational jealousy, the sudden surge of shamed arousal.

Padme offers one last, valiant effort. “Anakin will come home to me.”

“Of course he will, Padme.”

But when? And smelling of whose cheaply perfumed embrace? He does not make her believe it, even though he so effortlessly could. No, he offers the idea, and she takes it of her own free will. She swallows it for a convenient lie, deceiving herself to make her transgression easier. 

The fiery Padme, the one who challenges the entire Senate, the one who dares to defy the Jedi Council, is the one who reaches out and drags his head back down to hers. 

The Force sings with impending victory.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Sidious toys with his prey.

Neither one of them is entirely sure how it got to this point so swiftly, but Sidious is satisfied with the progression. Padme is on his desk, on her back, her fine gowns unbuttoned down the front and her supple breasts on full display, nipples hardening in the cool air. Her unblemished body is nothing short of sacrificial perfection. The glass of wine lies shattered on the floor where it landed after being shoved so unceremoniously aside. A few drops of the dark red liquid lie scattered across Padme’s pale skin. 

Corrupted perfection. 

He hovers over her, fully dressed and refusing to allow her to touch him. The ritual strengthens with every increase in her desire. The Force humming in his ears, he presses her hands gently to the desk and covers her lips with his own. 

He speaks into her mouth old words, ancient words of power, and he feels her body surging in response to the ritualistic patterns. Though she cannot feel the Force, her body can, and it shivers unconsciously under his gentle grip around her wrists. When he releases her lips and slides his tongue down her neck and between her breasts, she pants wildly for air. It takes a long moment before she can speak again. 

“What was…that?” she stammers. “It isn’t, isn’t Nubian.” 

“Hm? Just something I’ve picked up in my travels,” he murmurs against her navel, vibrating her skin with dark desire. He lets go of her hands, and they flutter helplessly at her sides. 

“Well,” her eyes widen in her face when he licks her there. Her hands curl at last into his hair, pushing his head lower. “Don’t stop doing it. It felt wonderful.”

“My, my, aren’t we the desperate one?” he chuckles, pulling free and flicking one hard nipple between his fingers. Padme groans and arches on the desk, her legs scrambling to find purchase on the smooth obsidian surface and the tangle of her robes. “Tell me, Senator, do the people of Naboo know just how desperate their representative is?” 

At her whimper of need, he tugs free several more of her fasteners, until her gown is completely open and pooling at her sides. Her undergarments are lacy and traditional, more snaps and ties than he really has the patience for at the moment, but he reels himself in and takes to releasing them slowly, one agonizing step after another. Anticipation snaps through his veins. 

He pulls one of her legs slightly up and slides his fingers under the band of the thigh-high stocking, rolling the gauzy material down and off her creamy flesh one centimeter at a time. She shivers as the cool air touches her skin. The other leg is laid bare as well, but only after he tortures her, running his fingertips up along her inner thigh, almost to the covered cleft between her legs. Padme utters a low, keening cry. 

He does not touch her there when he slides the undergarment down and off her hips. It drives her mad with lust, but he only watches her grow slicker yet. Padme squirms under his gaze and presses her legs together in embarrassment, but he stops her with a gentle hand on each thigh. 

“You are beautiful, Padme,” he assures her, insistently parting the sculpted legs until every centimeter of her is easily visible. The blush in her cheeks travels like a wave down her body, but her center is already flushed with her excitement. 

The ritual has done wonders, preparing her and leaving her approaching the edge of satisfaction. But once completed, it will keep her there until Anakin returns and does his duty. It will ensure that she cannot rest until Anakin’s seed has taken root in her womb. Once completed, its dark power will override any form of birth protection Padme might seek to use. 

Sidious hooks his hand in the air over her, pulling on the most archaic of symbols, tearing at the strings of darkness that now seep into her body, ethereal and unseen to any but him. Padme’s eyes are closed against the pleasure, and she does not see his motions either. 

She is too peaceful, he decides, too complacent. She requires…awakening. 

“Look how wet you are,” he whispers and trails one finger down her abdomen, pausing just above the sensitive bud. Her eyes flare open with the shock of his words. She doesn’t expect him to talk like this to her. Then he realizes; it stimulates her. How delightfully perverse. How far will she accept it? 

“You are a vision,” he tells her softly, “your legs spread, your last defenses gone. Did you come to my office planning this?” 

“Noo,” she groans and twists, helpless, when he blows gently on her core.

“I think perhaps you did,” he counters. “I felt something was off in you from the start, Padme, as though you wanted to be laid across a desk and you didn’t care who did it.” 

Padme tries to look away, ashamed, but he grasps her chin in his hand and turns her back to him. “There is no use denying it, my lady. You are open to me now, in more ways than one.” A shudder plays with her body, her core growing hotter.

“I can see everything. Your entire body, your tender little breasts and your tight little hole.” She gasps at his words and sucks them in greedily. Palpatine smiles. “All of it begging for…something. What are you begging for, my dear?” 

“I – I don’t know,” she stammers, biting at her thick lower lip for control and failing to find it. 

He applies a feather-light touch to the tip of her engorged bud, and her whole back arches from the desk. “Oh,” he says, as though surprised, pushing her down by her hips and enjoying the way she writhes desperately against him. “I see now. You need something to satisfy you… to fill your needy little channel.”

“Not…” she moans. He pulls her down the desk until her legs dangle helplessly off the edge. She is completely pliant in his hands. 

“Five months you’ve gone,” he smirks. “With nothing but your little fingers to satisfy your ravenous hunger. Now you want something more, something you think I can give you.” 

Yes, her body screams. No, her mind argues, but she wants this more than anything else right now. 

This reminds him of Dun Moch, he reflects absently as he ghosts a finger over the tips of her aching nipples. A taunting, goading game of words and shadows. There is one taunt that he wants to say, needs to caress across her soul, just to see her reaction. 

“Oh, but whatever would dear Anakin say?” he purrs in the reddening ear, watches as her eyes grow wide with horror and arousal. She is too far gone to care. Her legs curl around his back and pull him closer to her core, grinding the wet center between her legs against his clothed body. He feels himself growing slightly harder as she moves against him in a wild rhythm. Reaching out with a grin, he stills her hips and listens to the despairing moan escape her clenched teeth. 

“Please,” she whimpers. Her hands come up to fasten on his shoulders, but he catches them and pins them to either side of her on the desk. 

Denial. 

Her face twists in agony. “Chancellor… Palpatine…” 

He leans over her, letting her feel the faint bulge under his robes. “I like my name on your lips like that, Padme, but is it entirely proper?” 

“I don’t care,” she cries. “Please, just, please!” 

He grins and slides his grip up to her thin biceps. Her hands latch onto his forearms, squeezing in time with each wave of desire that washes over her core, leaving her breathless. Palpatine’s own breath catches in his throat, and he finally manages, “I think not. I think you’re being a very improper young lady. Look at you.” 

She tries to look away, but he won’t let her. “You’re liking this, aren’t you? Indeed you are. How…shocking.” 

She gasps harshly as he gently thrusts against her. Her legs tighten around his narrow hips, her muscles a rigid trap that he has no intention of escaping today. “I’ve waited a long time. I haven’t heard from him since he left. They won’t tell me anything,” Padme’s confessions tumble from her lips in rapid, guilty succession. 

As if she hopes he will absolve her.

No. No, he means to condemn her and pull her into this darkness of his own making. How unlike his icy self this is, all hot shadows tangling and writhing in indeterminate future paths. Slick bodies twining, possessing, devouring. 

It is rather entertaining and novel, at that. 

The smile hooks one corner of his mouth up, pulling a serpentine whisper into his baritone growl. “Yessss, you have a husband halfway across the galaxy, and you decide you’d like to fuck the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic because you are… impatient. How foolish can you get, my lady?” He leans down and licks the delicate curve of her neck, drawing out a low moan. He knows now that she likes him using such harsh words. He needs only to look at her to know it. 

Her body is on fire, her breasts golden in the afternoon light, tipped with rosy nipples hard and inviting. He takes one between his thin lips and tugs playfully, and her back comes off the desk with a shrill cry. Quickly, he lays a finger across her mouth, silencing her with a smoky look. 

“Be careful. They’ll hear us, my lady, unless that is what you wish. I won’t judge,” he smirks as the blush spreads from her cheeks to her neck and chest, and he flicks the hard curve of her pebbling skin. She utters a low sound, more softly now, petrified that someone will hear, someone will come through the wide doors. 

It is rather dangerous, what they are doing, but he has always enjoyed a little extra thrill in his challenges. He suspects she does as well, and the thought prompts him to pull back from her breasts and pause. “Still, perhaps we should practice caution,” he says, noting the way her eyes are begging him to return. “Senator Amidala in the natural on my desk may be quite difficult to explain satisfactorily.” 

Her arousal spikes the highest yet. 

“I need…” she gasps out, her hands weakly pushing his down over her abdomen, over the supple skin beaded with perspiration.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future is an unstable thing.

The moment has arrived, the ritual at the height of its terrible, intoxicating power. 

He falls back into his chair and pulls her onto his lap, tugging the last bits of her undergarments away, pushing the lush cloth from her pale shoulders. She is completely bare, and he is completely clothed, and he knows she is soaking his robes with her heat-slicked core as she writhes over him, turned with her back against his chest. Hooking his hands under her knees, he spreads her legs wide, so wide that she groans with the slight discomfort and leans back against his shoulder for balance. 

Her swollen pink center is completely exposed and dripping with her pleasure, and should anyone walk through the door, as they well could at any moment, they would see everything. Absolutely everything. Her abandoned hiss is so very unlike the prim and proper senator she professes to be. 

He subtly broadcasts the thought to her weak mind. He imagines someone like the sternly disapproving Mon Mothma and feasts on the tension in her limbs. Then he imagines the slack-jawed shock of Obi-Wan Kenobi, the utter horror of Anakin Skywalker. 

Sidious feels her shudder in shame over him, but it only heightens the forbidden pleasure. Anakin is far away, and he is here. One of her hands reaches down blindly for the sign of his arousal, but he moves her away, ignoring her gasp of protest. He slides his own hands over her hips, down to the juncture of her legs. His fingertips tease across the engorged bud of her flower, and she jolts up in his arms with a low cry. 

“There now, my dear Padme,” he whispers in her ear as his thumb rubs gentle circles and she quakes helplessly. “I can see you want this. You are so very wet. Wetter than I thought a proper little Senator could ever be. Are you ever this wet for Anakin?”

The jibe sparks a fire in her, and her mind clears with self-loathing for a moment. She lies, bold as sin. “Wetter, Chancellor.” 

“Is that a challenge?” he says with a gentle show of sharp white teeth. She shifts in his lap and trembles when his finger dips shallowly into her core, testing, teasing. 

“Mmm…” she vocalizes softly, “please.” 

He responds by slipping a finger fully into her, marveling at the tightness as he goes deep, as she ripples around him, and for the first time in the afternoon he can’t control his own response. She feels his erection stirring under his robes, and her hands drop down again. This time, he doesn’t stop her as she slides her hot hand into his robes and seizes his hardening flesh. 

He is surprised by the hiss of his own breath when she squeezes him and runs her fingertips over the head, provoking a soft layer of fluid from the tip. Palpatine bites his lip to stop the deep groan that threatens to escape. Her hand is unbelievably soft and feminine. 

Padme must sense something changing in the air, because she wriggles back against him as she pulls his shaft free of the robes. “Palpatine!” she gasps out. “I need you!” 

He hardens further in the cool climate of his office, his tip brushing along her warm skin. The sensation is almost overwhelming, but he manages to shove it to the back of his mind and remain focused on the mission at hand. He lifts her up until her core hovers overhead and she begins whimpering madly from the loss of contact. 

He opens himself to the Dark Side in that moment, and it sings with his success. She is ready. He whispers the final words in the shadowy pattern. She responds with a low whine.

“Palpatine…” 

He slams her down without warning, sliding balls-deep into the tight channel and coaxing a low scream from her plumped lips. They freeze as one, joined together, her muscles convulsing deliciously around his length, her hands grasping at his robed thighs for stability. “Shhh,” he hisses in her ear, holding her still when she tries to move over him. 

The office remains undisturbed, though the distant noise has grown more faint. Perhaps it is only the roaring of the Force in his ears. 

Padme’s core tightens around him, and he instinctively thrusts upward, his hands rising to grasp at her perfect little breasts. Her back curves against his chest; she is lifting and dropping with each thrust he makes, her smooth flesh covered in a thin layer of sweat. Soft pants of air burst from her mouth, and the sound thrills him, sending him to a place he was not expecting. 

He is enjoying this, and not just for the enhanced sensations of the Sith ritual. He is enjoying Padme’s tight little body, the way she curls and clenches over him, pulling him deeper, the way his shaft fits perfectly in her core, the way she suddenly stammers out his name when his tip brushes a place deep inside her. 

Especially that. 

He feels his body tightening, drawing up, the warmth spreading through his abdomen, his own breath coming in harsh pants, and he knows the time is close at hand. 

Padme senses it too, her movements becoming faster and more abandoned. Desperate. Suddenly she is groaning with ecstasy and her core is pulsing around him as she comes apart utterly, helplessly in his grasp. Perhaps he should pull out now, before… The Force pulls at his thoughts, and he lets the mortal realm free for a moment in time. 

When the darkness blossoms under his probing touch, Palpatine is seized with irrational excitement. Perhaps he misread the future. Perhaps the child is not meant to be Anakin’s at all…

So enveloped in the Force is he that the only way he knows he has come is Padme’s renewed cries and the softening of his shaft in her core. He holds her in place, suddenly imagining his fluids taking root deep in her womb, his progeny being birthed into his Empire, a double creation, a masterful stroke. 

He hears her whimper and try to pull free, but he pulls her back to him and stays embedded, willing her body to accept his gift, unwilling to let any of it escape. “Chancellor, please,” she begs, and he hears at last the awakened shame in her voice. He reluctantly lets her slide free of him with a wet, sticky sound. Her legs will not hold her up, and she slips to her knees by the desk, bent and unsteady, knuckles white on the dark, expensive wood. Her sex, on display, drips with their mingled bodily fluids.

Although he enjoys the view, he tucks himself hurriedly away and kneels at her side, the picture of concern. “My lady, are you all right?” 

“That was…,” Padme whispers, hair blanketing her face in mussed curls, her hands gripping onto the desk. “I’ve never felt anything like it… Not even with Anakin…” 

The combination of shame and deep arousal in her voice shakes him more than he expects. She will never know the aphrodisiac known as the Dark Side. It’s no use tempting her with it; she’s too pure to ever want to know what has sullied her. 

The ritual is over, but he runs his hand over the curve of her spine and dips it between her legs, feeling the slickness coating her thighs. Padme shivers as his fingers tease her sensitized entrance. She does not try to pull away, even as she says, “We should – should not have done this.” 

He pushes one finger in, and she bends a little more, opening for him as she clutches at the desk for support. Her body is warming again, already, victim of the dark words spoken into heated air. 

She would gladly be taken again, but he pulls away from her after a moment of fantasy. She protests, a tiny sound, as his finger slips out and he stands to move across the office to the personal suite. Digging several small hand towels from the refresher, he returns to her side and silently offers them. She cleans and dresses in awkward silence, neither of them quite willing to look each other in the eyes. 

Padme motions to her face and hair. “May I-?” 

“Of course,” he nods and steps aside to let her borrow the refresher. As she passes, he projects only sincere concern and slight guilt. Inside, Sidious is glowing with satisfaction. The ritual can be counted a success. 

She is now fertile. 

The darkness will not yet tell him if his seed has taken root, obscuring her womb in the afterhaze of the complicated ritual. But his or not, the child will be born of shadow. He can live with that. 

Padme steps from the refresher, finishing the last ties of her extravagant gown and turning to face him. Her hair and face are immaculate once more, though her eyes remain lowered and her cheeks stay bright with embarrassment. “I don’t know what came over me, Chancellor. I must apologize for my actions.” 

“I was not entirely averse to the situation either,” Palpatine assures her, prompting a tremulous and liquid smile. 

“What we did…” Padme can’t vocalize it, the sheer audacity of her actions. 

“Was out of line? Yes, yes, I suppose it was.” He sighs and steps forward, taking her hands in his. “But we must move on. I will not betray your trust, my dear. It will be as though this never happened.” 

The relief in her eyes is sweet to behold. How she trusts him, like a simple child. “Thank you, Chancellor.” 

He waits until she passes beyond the wide doors of his office and he is alone again. His eyes turn a faint, incandescent gold as he moves to his private suite for a change of robes. Her scent is all over him, and he revels in that significance. “The pleasure was all mine, Senator.”


End file.
